


Bide Your Time (But When it's Time, it's Time)

by drabbleandfluff



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/F, F/M, Het, M/M, No excuses, Other, Slash, Smut, Yuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:42:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drabbleandfluff/pseuds/drabbleandfluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten facts about the relationships within the Gotei 13.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bide Your Time (But When it's Time, it's Time)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as an entry for Bleach_Contest week #80 - 10 Facts. Here, there be porn, some crack, and woeful attempts at humor. 
> 
> Pairings are Captain/Vice Captain. There is no Hitsugaya, Yachiru or Hinamori, for obvious reasons. Luckily, that still leaves ten Divisions. I am still so distraught over Chapter 502. Porn is my answer.

 

**One.**

  
Yamamoto Genryusai never touches.  Not with his hands.

The weight of his gaze, though, feels heavier than any caress ever would; and Chojiro groans under the stroke of his own hand as he kneels in front of his captain-- knees spread wide, naked and dripping, covered in a heavy sheen of sweat. 

The heat of the room smothers him, the essence of his captain’s reiatsu, _his fire_ , bathes-- overflows-- Sasakibe’s every pore.  Fills him, with something more intense, more intimate, than turgid flesh.

Genryusai watches Chojiro’s own rough handling, as he tries not to curl into himself as pleasure builds excruciatingly hot in his belly.  His hips twitch upward into his fist, rolling frantically as he pushes himself higher.  His neck stretches, head tipping back.   His mouth gapes open and he gulps in flames.

Orgasm blazes through him, streaking his chest with sticky white ropes of bitter and salt.

Yamamoto Genryusai never touches with this hands--  but he does, with this tongue.

 

 

 

**Two.**

  
He’s good at this.  He loves to eat. 

He has writ haiku in honor of wagashi, chawan-mushi, even konnyaku, upon occasion. 

He knows what he likes.

He goes down in eagerness, takes his time savoring the sweetness and tang of his captain on his tongue, in his mouth.  Here, his captain doesn’t mind him being sloppy, enthusiastic.  His palate, well accustomed to the delicacies of exotic foods afforded of his station, is appreciative and nimble, slippery and oh-so hungry. 

He pushes in to taste her more, slurping; delighting in the clench of her thighs around his head, around his tongue. 

He’s good at this.

 

 

 

**Three.**

  
The whole Division thinks they’re fucking.  Rose would even go as far as to bet that the entire Gotei 13 probably thinks the same.

Simple minded fools.  There was, _no doubt_ , not a true artist among them; no one else here who fully _embraces_ , understands the quintessence, the significance of respect and appreciation that is a muse. 

It is to be cherished and aggrandized, it is inspiration and adoration.

Kira Izuru is a diamond among pearls.

A swan among pigeons.

A ripest peach… waiting… burgeoning with juice… 

(hmmm…. lemme write this down….)

 

 

 

**Four.**

  
Unohana taicho has beautiful hands.  Her fingers are long and white and elegantly tapered, her touch gentle and reassuring.

Lying together on the futon, Isane watches as those fingers weave into hers--  Isane’s fingers are by comparison red and roughened by incessant hand washing; fingernails cut short and graceless, cuticles peeling, cuts and scrapes garish upon her thumbs and forefingers.  Her hands are victims of circumstance and occupation.

Unohana taicho repositions their entwined fingers together, and slowly moves them down Isane’s flat abdomen. Gently, encouragingly, she moves her hand—their hands— down between Isane’s bent and spread knees, until they are palming the heat of her, until they unfold her and touch deep-- until they stretch and rub, and she gasps. And she smiles.

 

 

 

**Six.**

  
Renji relishes it when hakuda training gets like this--  when he’s pushed his captain too far with smart-ass insults and under-handed Rukongai street-brawling body checks, when he’s purposefully grabbed at the black uniform and ripped the haori off noble shoulders--  when Byakuya’s gotten manhandled enough that he drops the detached veneer and aloof nobility and _forcibly_ tackles Renji to the ground.

They roll until he is pinned beneath (and he always gets pinned) and those graceful lips sneer (an insult at the tip of that eloquent tongue), and there is dirt on the arch of an alabaster cheek (he so wants to explore the full meaning of _dirty_ with his captain).  There is fire and life erupting in Byakuya’s eyes, under his skin, churning the razor blade edges of his spiritual pressure.

Renji wraps his hand around the back of Byakuya’s head, pulls him down and crushes their mouths together-- a sharp fang piercing the softness of an aristocratic bottom lip-- 

_And it is on._

 

 

 

**Seven.**

  
It’s the smoothness of Iba’s skin that gets him, ties him.--  makes him keep coming back for more even if his self declared inner morality begs himself not to.

He can’t help it.

Tetsuzaemon’s skin is so very hairless; _flawless_.  And beneath the layers of dermis and tissue, there are the large, hard muscles of Iba’s substantial thighs. 

When Iba clenches them, squeezing them together around Sajin’s cock, Sajin growls--  the aching rumble vibrating through the wolf’s chest into the man below.  Sajin leans down to cover Tetsuzaemon entirely; on some nights like these, he gets the broad expanse of Iba’s naked back, too.  He ducks his head down, rubbing his furred cheek against broad bulky shoulders.

He rocks slowly, wanting it to last, _knowing it can’t_ …  he is sheathed by smooth _hotsleek_ skin… and it is so. damn. _good_.  He wants to howl.

There is the rough encouragement of Tetsuzaemon in his ear, and the slickness of oil easing the way--  his hips stutter, then rapidly pick up speed-- the hold of muscular thighs tighten and _pull_ , and Sajin is suddenly, _gloriously_ , wrenched  into orgasm.

 

 

 

**Eight.**

  
He’s been reading to her ever since that fateful night, when Nanao had gone in search of her favorite bedtime story partner, and had encountered Lisa’s captain instead.

As a child, his soothing baritone had been the perfect balm.  He was warmth and comfort, weaving stories of magical creatures and fairy tales--  of unicorns, princes and True Love.

She can’t recall when the stories had changed, when _exactly_ the material had turned from _‘and they lived happily ever after’_ into becoming _‘moaning and breathless, she strained against her bindings’_ or when the romps of furry bunnies and singing mice had become preludes to ones where the Master was wielding a Cat O’ Nine Tails instead. 

But it was his voice she sought out then, and it is still his voice that drives her now--  purring throatily with dark promises, dangling temptation just outside her reach--   that tips her over the edge.

 

 

 

**Nine.**

  
Shuuhei likes kneeling.

And yes, it _is_ exactly for that reason.

When Shuuhei kneels in front of his captain, he’s in perfect position.

On his knees, he shuffles up close while Muguruma taicho stands (at the edge of his bed, leaning against a wall, perched on the edge of his desk) at attention. 

He pushes the opened neck of Kensei’s uniform aside, baring this captain’s muscular torso to his greedy gaze.  Reverently, Shuuhei leans forward and angles his head, so that his cheek rubs up against Kensei’s abdomen--  so that their tattoos line up perfectly.

He holds that position; bathing in the fulfillment of finding this man, his savior, his Captain.

He pulls back. 

Ready to begin; he licks his teeth.  The anticipation thrums under his skin, of being taken apart and put back together, again.  Again and again, until each part of himself is sheared away and reassembled, until the layers of fear are no longer there.

 

 

 

**Twelve.**

  
He’s done it all to her. Commands her to his bidding, his demands.  His dark wants and questionable kinks.

She does whatever he says.

No complaints.  No emotions.

Just a simple--  ‘yes, Mayuri-sama’.

He’s been asexual for century.

 

 

 

**Thirteen.**

  
There is something between them, that rises and falls, like the tides of the sea.  Some days it feels light and natural, buoyancy that floats at ease and runs the division effortlessly.

Other times, when Jyushiro finds himself reaching out to his fukutaicho in _a different way_ , the air suddenly becomes heavy--  and he feels like he has to swallow the atmosphere in order to breathe it in.   His lungs saturate, and he thinks he can taste the brackish water filling his chest; it unnerves him, as he is so accustomed to the tang of the oceans instead.

It always stops him in his tracks. 

He remembers this taste.  He first experienced it a lifetime ago, with a man whose zanpakuto wielded fresh water, not salt; crisp and cold, like the freshest melt off the first winter snow storm.

It makes something shatter within his chest. And he finds himself pulling his hand back.


End file.
